Retribution
by prone2dementia
Summary: ...One flew east, one flew west, one flew over the cuckoo’s nest... The Boy-Who-Lived-to-Murder-the-Dursleys takes on Hogwarts. Dear Old Dumbles has made a dire mistake. Sequel to Retaliate, can be read as standalone.
1. Prologue

Epigraph from Ken Kesey's _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest._

Warnings: violence, unrealistically intelligent Harry, unrealistically characterized Dumbledore.

* * *

_R E T R I B U T I O N_

POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS

Rubeus Hagrid frowned thoughtfully at the blue block letters, debating whether or not he should disregard the police barrier tape. Weren't the 'police' a type of Muggle law enforcement? Why would law enforcement wish to prevent entrance into the perimeters of Number 4 Privet Drive? What was so special about it?

Already, he had double-checked the address twice.

But the building before him—with its overgrown lawn, rusted gate, faded paint, and coarse weeds that sprung up unyieldingly between the cracks in the pathway leading up to the door—was indeed the residence of one Harry James Potter.

Well, _former_ residence, it now seemed.

_What happened here?_

_Where was Harry?_

_Where were the Dursleys?_

Lost in his pondering, the half-giant did not notice the face that peered at him through the hedges adjacent to Number 4.

A clearing of the throat was followed by a call, "Excuse me!"

He turned his gaze to the woman who had spoken. She was scarcely taller than her fence, and all he could see of her was a forgettable face framed by wispy, ginger hair.

"Can I help yeh?" the gamekeeper inquired.

Pale, blinking eyes studied him. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Though her words were phrased like a question, Hagrid felt that they weren't one. He answered anyway, "No, ma'am."

"Ahh..." She motioned vaguely at the Dursley residence. "Were you acquainted with the family?"

"Erm, I knew the Dursley's nephew, see. Was friends with the lad's parents." He noticed how she seemed to pale at the mention of Harry.

"Is that so? And are you aware of what happened to the Dursleys?"

Hagrid tugged uncomfortably at his beard. "I'm 'fraid not. D'yeh know what happened to 'em, ma'am?"

The Muggle cast furtive glances about their surroundings before beckoning him closer. The man complied, making large strides in her direction.

"Apparently the boy, Harry, was being abused. And the abuse was really bad. So one day—" she paused for dramatic effect, and he bent closer to hear what she had to say, "One day, he just snapped—tortured and murdered the Dursleys in cold blood."

A beat of silence. Then:

"No! Harry couldn't've done tha'!"

The woman looked slightly affronted. "Well, when was the last time _you_ checked up on the boy?"

His cheeks took on a ruddy tinge. "When he was jus' a babe."

"There you have it then," she sniffed. "No one bothered to look into his condition."

_Abusive relatives?_

_Torture and murder?_

The burly half-giant shook off his daze. "Well, where's he at now?"

"I think...it's the Charlesworth Asylum for the Criminally Insane, located just a bit outside of London."

"I—I can' believe this!" Hagrid exclaimed.

_Abuse? How could that happen to James and Lily's son?_

_Torture and murder? How could Harry do such a thing?_

_...Cold blood..._

He came to his senses and stuttered, "Er, th-thanks fer tellin' me this, ma'am. I've got teh go."

The man stumbled off. Even when the Muggle was far out of sight, he could still hear her words ringing loudly in his ears:

"_No one bothered to look into his condition."_

_What about Dumbledore?_

_He probably never thought something like this could happen. Yes, that's right_, Hagrid reassured himself_. He didn't know such a thing could happen._

Nevertheless, a small seed of doubt about the Headmaster's competency was sown.

* * *

The half-giant's unexpected explanation caused unexpected reactions. Severus Snape, known for his eloquent, cutting remarks and imperturbable demeanor, choked on thin air as his eyes bugged to comical proportions. The parchment clenched within Filius Flitwick's hands fluttered to the floor as he, himself, fell off his chair. Minerva McGonagall's features twisted from shock to disbelief and then back to shock while she stuttered incomprehensibly ("_Wha—how—this has to be a joke—no—h-how could_—"). Pomona Sprout fainted.

But these responses were overshadowed by Dumbledore's. As if petrified by a basilisk, his face, along with the customary twinkle in his eyes, froze completely and instantly. He stopped breathing altogether, and the color drained from his skin. He was left as ashen as death and, for a moment, he was more statue than human.

"Headmaster?" Hagrid prompted hesitantly. "Yeh all right?"

Chin bobbing and throat working, the elderly wizard was unable to reply for a moment. Finally, he swallowed and said, "I'm fine, Rubeus. This was merely...unexpected." He turned to address the four Heads of Houses, "I think this meeting should be pushed to a later date."

A beat of silence followed his declaration.

"...Do...do you plan on checking up on the boy?" asked Minerva.

"Oh...Yes, I suppose." Dumbledore seemed slightly dazed.

"Then, you would not mind if I accompanied you?" continued the Head of Gryffindor.

Thoughtfulness passed over the Headmaster's expression; he was rapidly recovering. "Yes, I believe that would be wise."

Flitwick suggested, "Perhaps Severus should accompany you as well."

The aforementioned man looked up from the act of waving a foul-odored stick under Pomona's nose. "And why, pray tell, should I do so?"

"Well, I just thought, because you grew up in the Muggle world..." the Charms professor trailed off awkwardly.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, Severus. That is quite a great idea! I could do with your assistance."

Severus' brows furrowed in disgust. He clearly did _not _think it was a great idea. On the floor beside him, Pomona Sprout was just beginning to stir, roused by the stench.

"Oh, dear," said the woman as she blinked rapidly. "What a shock... Have I missed any major developments?"

* * *

Bright and cheerful, the mid-afternoon sunlight slanted over the sidewalk as three figures moved across it. The sunny weather matched the elderly, bearded man's mood—Headmaster Dumbledore had since recovered from the news bestowed by Hagrid. The twinkle in the professor's blue eyes were testament to his resolve to pretend that nothing was wrong. Next to him, moving gracefully despite old age, was Professor McGonagall. Her features betrayed worry and nerves, but also a decision to swallow her misgivings. Slouching behind them, a certain Potions master was making _no _attempt to hide his doubts.

Their destination was obvious. A singular building stood imposingly, with no dwellings within its vicinity. The grounds were nothing more than a large stretch of grass, dull green and long-suffering from the summer heat. Bisecting it was a pathway, paving the way to the entrance of the insane asylum.

Of course, gazing at the anonymous façade, a mere passerby would not be aware of the building's disheartening purpose. The three visitors could not even catch sight of the sign until they stood right before the double doors. Inscribed in an arc over the entry was small, Gothic lettering:

CHARLESWORTH ASYLUM

for the

Criminally Insane

The words were a reminder of their reason for coming. Minerva frowned at them, Severus scowled, and Albus pretended not to see them as he glided over the threshold and inside. Reluctantly, the other two professors followed.

The interior was just as impersonal as the exterior. Hard, marble flooring. Blank walls. Cool lighting. The only other human life present sat behind a counter, scribbling across forms. Quite straightforward, Albus strode up toward the receptionist and cleared his voice.

She looked up, a stand of blonde hair falling from her bun and into her eyes. "Good morning. Do you have an appointment?"

Discreetly, Dumbledore pulled out his wand. "I do, indeed. We are here to see one Harry James Potter."

The woman opened her mouth to speak, but stopped promptly in response to a twirl of Dumbledore's wand. Her eyes glazed momentarily before clearing.

"Oooh. I see. Please hold while I write passes for you. What are your names?"

"I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. With me are Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall."

Blankly, the blonde stared. "...Um. Can you spell that?"

Snape was barely able to repress a groan of frustration. "D-U-M-B-L-E-D-O-R-E. S-N-A-P-E. M-C-G-O-N-A-G-A-L-L."

A pause, filled with the scrawling of pen on paper. Then:

"...All right, then." She leaned forward, picked up the telephone, and rapidly spoke instructions into it. After replacing the receiver, she said, "Your escort will be with you shortly. She will assist you through security, and guide you to Mr. Potter's room."

"Many thanks," the Headmaster said gratefully.

As per the receptionist's words, a woman arrived not two minutes later, shuffling through a door opposite the counter. She was perhaps in her late forties, with glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, a clipboard braced against her chest, and mousy hair tucked behind both ears.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen, lady. I am Nurse Repsch, and I see that you are—" she squinted at their nametags, "Misters Dumbledore and Snape, and Miss McGonagall?"

"Actually," corrected Dumbledore. "We are Professors."

"Ahh...I see. This way."

She led them through the same pair of doors that she had entered. The room they came to resembled extensive airport security. Two guards stood with crossed arms before a metal detector. Two more guards shielded the doors leading to the main part of the asylum.

"Please take out the proper identification," instructed Nurse Repsch.

"Oh, I don't believe that will be necessary."

And another wave of the wand later, the three magic practitioners were on their way to Harry's room. Minerva's face betrayed incredulity as she pulled Dumbledore to one side.

Her whisper seemed loud in the sterile silence of the hallways. However, due to spells, neither Repsch nor the guards who trailed a few paces behind them could hear their discourse.

"Are you sure you can just abuse magic like this?" the cat animagus hissed furiously.

"The Muggles are unaware, my dear. What they don't know can't hurt them," Dumbledore waved away easily.

"But—" she stopped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

Behind her, Severus Snape's expression said clearly, "_There's no use arguing with him_."

Thus, Professor McGonagall dropped the topic and they continued in silence.

"I do wonder," said Dumbledore, "where are all of the patients?"

"You are in one of our main hallways," explained Repsch. "None of our patients' rooms are located here. However, if you make a left here..."

They did as she instructed, and passed under a sign marked "Juvenile Ward". This passageway was narrower, with doors at set intervals and name placards marking the doors. Distant shouting could be heard, but Nurse Repsch ignored it.

"We're here," she announced. "We have more volatile subjects than Mr. Potter, but I ask that you do not speak with him until I give the okay. Also, you should be aware that you will not be able to discuss with him in private. It is for your own safety."

Snape repeated with a shade of skepticism, "For our own safety."

"Yes," she replied seriously. "We only treat him in pairs because we found that, when a doctor or nurse treated him alone, he or she was driven to insanity."

Not waiting for a response, the nurse knocked on Harry's door, inserted a key into the lock, and pushed. She missed the disbelieving look that passed between Snape and McGonagall.

"Harry? You have some visitors," she called.

The two wizards and one witch looked in the direction at which Repsch directed her inquiry. Upon a bench welded to the floor sat a boy. He was bent over a table welded to the wall, and they saw nothing but his hunched, white-clothed figure and his halo of black hair. As they watched, he glanced up.

Smiling, he greeted, "'Afternoon, Nurse Repsch."

And, with his large, emerald eyes and unsuspecting expression, he appeared as innocent as only a child could appear.

From the corner of his mouth, Snape could not resist a snide mutter, "He doesn't look like much of a murderer to me."

If Nurse Repsch heard the Potions master, she did not let on, "Are you drawing again, Harry?"

Harry nodded.

"Harry is quite the artist," Repsch admitted as she turned to the three other adults.

"May we see your drawing?" Minerva asked curiously.

Hesitantly, the other woman warned, "Are you sure you want to? The drawings may be quite—"

"Why, of course!" Dumbledore cut off, his voice colored with enthusiasm.

Shrugging, the boy unfolded himself from the bench. The Hogwarts professors subconsciously noted the fluid grace with which he moved, and the elegance with which he carried himself. He silently presented his artwork.

McGonagall could not hold back a gasp. Dumbledore muttered an, "_Oh, my_." Nurse Repsch winced. Snape turned colorless.

Bold, charcoal strokes wove a tapestry of gore and violence and distress. The subject of the picture was a broken girl, splayed in a contorted fashion, marked by cuts and cigarette burns. Her head was lolling forth, half attached to her neck. Empty sockets stared out of the drawing, almost as if staring into the souls of those who gazed into them.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke, "...How...intense."

In the background, Snape attempted to mask his horror.

"...Thank you, I suppose," said the boy.

"Harry," said Repsch. "This is Professors Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance," the boy said demurely.

The Head of Gryffindor and Head of Slytherin were unsure what to make of the contrast in behavior. Harry seemed to be quite the angel, but there was evidence that he could be anything but.

"How long have you been in this asylum?" inquired Dumbledore.

The youth thought for a moment. "Almost a year, I believe."

"And would you like to leave?"

"Oh, I'd give anything."

Before the wizard could reply, McGonagall tugged on his sleeve.

"Will you give us a moment?" Dumbledore said instead.

The three wizards stepped back out into the hall, casting spells to make sure that the guards standing by the door could not hear them.

"Did you wish to say something, Minerva?"

"Yes! What are you hoping to achieve by asking Harry if he wants to leave?"

"Well," the Headmaster said slowly, as if he were explaining to a small child, "I'm offering Harry a way out."

"Are you insane? Why would you do that?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"He's been convicted of three murders! He's in an asylum for the criminally _insane_!"

"But you saw him in there. He doesn't look like a murderer at all. Isn't that so, Severus?"

Severus blinked, clearly not wanting to be dragged into the argument. "I—"

Dumbledore did not wait for him to finish, "That's right. Harry is a nice child. All he needs is love!"

"But—" said Minerva.

"Furthermore, I believe Voldemort is going to try and return. When he inevitably does, we need to have Harry trained and ready to defeat him."

There was no use in arguing with Dumbledore, Minerva was starting to realize.

Sighing, she said, "I sincerely hope that you are not making a mistake."

* * *

Guilty pleasure fic? Why, yes.

Thanks to imadoodlenoodle, for the beta and the ideas.


	2. Year 1

**1**

Gazing upon the emerald-eyed boy who made polite conversation with the first years around him, Hermione was _absolutely_ _certain _she had seen his face and heard his name somewhere. Somewhere _other _than a book about the recent history of the magical world.

_But where?_

When in a quandary, the bushy haired Muggleborn stopped at nothing to solve the dilemma troubling her. Now was no different. Determinedly, she stared at him, as if the answer would appear from out of nowhere if she looked hard enough.

She allowed herself to admit that he was attractive. Standing in the midst of chattering, excited students, his elegant calm was only highlighted through contrast. As if sensing her intent scrutiny, he glanced up. Their eyes locked, and Hermione felt her breath leave her in a sudden gust. Shadows of knowledge and darkness played deep in his gaze, causing his eyes to sparkle all the more.

"See something you like?"

The bookworm blinked, slowly registering that he had directed his words to her. "Huh?"

"You've been staring at me for quite a while now."

She opened her mouth, but faltered when she caught sight of his indulgent, unsettling smile.

_What was unsettling about it?_ she questioned herself, shifting uneasily. Yet again, she could not conjure up an answer. It seemed that Harry Potter was presenting quite a lot of problems for her.

Finally, she blurted, "I've heard your name from somewhere!"

Louder than she had meant for it to be, her comment carried through the queue of first years, waiting to be led into the Great Hall for their Sorting. A shush descended as all eyes swiveled to her. Then the snickering started.

"Of course you would have heard his name from somewhere," sneered a blond boy standing near Harry. "He's famous, you stupid Mudblood."

Feeling blood rush to her cheeks, her lips trembled as she defended herself, "I _know _he defeated the Dark Lord. But I've heard his name from somewhere else!"

However, her explanation was lost as another boy joined their discourse.

"_What _did you call her, Malfoy?" growled a redhead, his cheeks the same angry hue as his hair.

"Are you hearing impaired, Weasley? I called her a _stupid Mudblood_."

Mudblood was a derogatory term, Hermione recalled. Inadvertently, she found herself seeking out Harry Potter's reaction to the word. She was disappointed to find that his small smile had yet to disappear. He merely watched Weasley and Malfoy's argument with a detached interest. He wasn't anything like she had anticipated, she realized with a jolt: He wasn't brave nor heroic nor ten feet tall.

Chiding herself for her fanciful expectations, Hermione turned away. Presently, Professor McGonagall was hurrying back toward them, to lead them into the Great Hall. Nerves that had been bubbling in Hermione's subconscious mind now surfaced. Too preoccupied by her own worries, she temporarily forgot about the mystery of Harry Potter.

The Great Hall exceeded her wildest imaginations. Hundreds of staring faces and thousands of flickering candles and—

Oh, Hermione was feeling so very lightheaded now. Did others share her response? Malfoy was trying and failing to appear unimpressed. Weasley was gaping openly. Around her, the eyes of the other soon-to-be magic practitioners also shined with an excitement that could certainly not be replicated by others outside of this situation.

Again, Harry Potter stood out from the masses.

_How could he look so composed, so unaffected?_ wondered Hermione. And she was convinced that others observed his impassiveness as well. Heads turned to follow his graceful gait. Whispers ruptured as he passed. He was different. He was special. People took notice.

It seemed they had reached their destination now. In front of the entire school, they were congregated, anxiously searching for _some _hint of what they were supposed to do. The hint came in the form of a stool, then a hat placed upon the stool, and then a whole song that came bursting out of the hat!

"_Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see..._"

Hermione fought to keep down the hysterics that threatened to burst from here. After all this time—_after all this anticipation_—all they had to do was try on a hat! Determination ensconced in her mind. She would convince the hat that she was suited for Gryffindor. She was, she was, _she was_. Perhaps chanting the phrase while watching the other students be sorted did the trick—for when she found herself upon the stool, the hat merely chuckled, mentioned something about Ravenclaw losing a bright mind, and shouted "_Gryffindor!"_

Happily, she settled into her new table to watch the other students. Some took longer than others, and she was thankful that her own sorting was relatively short. Twenty minutes in, McGonagall called the name everyone had been waiting for:

"Potter, Harry!"

As the boy strolled to the stool, frantic discussions broke out.

"Can you believe that's actually Harry Potter?"

"Look at him! He's so _calm_..."

"How much do you want to bet that he's a Gryffindor?"

Harry Potter's sorting seemed to be taking a long time. The whispers of the students began to grow louder and louder until—

"SLYTH—AUGH!"

The hat's proclamation morphed into garbled noise as it erupted into flames. For one silent moment, the entire hall watched the incinerating hat in unadulterated shock.

McGonagall came to her senses first. Raising her wand, she blasted the hat away from the dark-haired boy, and proceeded to douse it with water.

"Mr. Potter, are you all right?" she finally asked.

Strangely enough, neither a single strand of his hair nor a single patch of his skin was burned.

"I'm fine, Professor. Thank you for the concern." Unruffled, he stood from the stool.

From his seat at the head of the teacher's table, Dumbledore cleared his throat. "It seems that the hat proclaimed you a Slytherin, before that unfortunate...accident."

Distracted by the hat spontaneously catching on fire, nobody had registered Harry's house until now. The Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs were horrified as well as scandalized. The Slytherins, barring Snape, were elated.

* * *

"Mr. Potter, will you cease twirling your knife?"

Innocently wide-eyed, the aforementioned boy replied, "I'm sorry, sir."

Snape gritted his teeth, biting back anger. Two minutes later, when he noticed the glint of Harry's spinning knife once again, some of the anger dissipated into fear. Wielding his blade expertly, Harry was staring straight at him.

His smile revealed sharp canines, glinting as dangerously as the weapon he held.

The Potions Master suppressed a shudder. This would be a long seven years.

* * *

Draco wasn't quite sure _what _to make of Harry Potter. After just moments of dialogue with the Boy-Who-Lived, his self-preservation instincts would commence a raucous alarm. However, determined to make friends with Harry, he did not heed the warning.

Harry commanded an urbane air that caused Draco to rot with jealousy. The dark-haired youth rarely initiated conversations, and his unreadable expression always induced much anguish and uncertainty (_fear) _in Draco_. _Feeling as if he were constantly on dangerous ice, the pureblood was cursed with incoherence whenever he found himself in the other's company.

Not today, he decided. For almost a month now, he had stammered and stuttered in Harry's presence. It was time to change the emerald-eyed boy's opinion of him.

Catching sight of Harry in the Common Room, he strode up to him with a confidence he did not feel.

"You draw?" he asked, when he realized what Harry was doing.

Promptly, he winced. What a tactless, thoughtless question! Of course Harry drew! The evidence was right in front of him.

Harry looked up with a smile. It wasn't a reassuring expression. But, then again, Harry's smile was never reassuring.

"It calms me down. Allows me to...channel my thoughts."

"Oh?" Draco was curious now. Firstly, Harry never seemed to be anything but calm. Secondly, the aristocrat was indubitably interested in what Harry thought about. "May I see?"

A shrug. "Are you certain?"

"Of course!" _Why wouldn't he be certain?_

"All right." Pulling out the drawing he was currently working on, Harry displayed it to Draco.

"...Uh-hum." The blond Slytherin coughed unnecessarily. "Er. It's very..._intense_. Quite..._attention grabbing_, yes...," he trailed off weakly.

Grinning, Harry turned his own gaze on his piece.

"Perhaps. However, this portion can do with more detail—" He pointed at an emaciated corpse in the background, then indicated at a shadowy figure holding a kitchen knife over a screaming female. "—and _this _section is slightly disproportioned."

"Well, uh...I can't claim to be an expert in art!" Awkwardly, he attempted to chuckle.

Harry's smile widened. "How..._disappointing_."

"Yes! Disappointing indeed! Um, I must get to the library to, ah..." The Malfoy heir darted out of the room, racing at the same speed as his frantically beating heart.

He avoided thinking of what Harry would do to him, because he was "_disappointing"_.

* * *

"Fred, you're not pronouncing it right!"

"The spell isn't as easy as it looks, George."

"Well, let me—"

"What are you two doing?"

Two ginger heads whipped up, staring at the third boy who had joined their exchange. With his head tilted to the side, The Infamous Harry Potter gazed down at them curiously. And, yes, analogous with popular belief, he _did_ appear scarier in person. Not that the Weasley twins would admit it. He was an ickle firstie, and deserved to be treated like an ickle firstie.

"Now, now—"

"—We won't reveal our secrets—"

"—in exchange for nothing!"

Amusement flickered in the Slytherin's eyes. "And what would you like in exchange? The world on a platter, perhaps?"

"Nah, we shall work towards world domination—"

"—by ourselves! More satisfaction that way."

"What we want—"

"—is the answer to a question."

Harry acceded. "What question?"

"Why did the Sorting Hat—"

"—catch on fire during your Sorting?"

As if he had expected a much more difficult question, the Boy-Who-Lived allowed an easy grin to diffuse over his face in response to the twins' inquiry. "That's simple. I was angry at it."

In unison, Fred and George chorused, "Why?"

"I warned it not to put me in Slytherin, but it didn't heed my warning. So it had to suffer the consequences."

The two Weasleys traded a significant _look_, before prostrating on the floor before Harry. "You have earned our eternal worship, Oh Great One."

Raising an eyebrow, the first year suggested, "Perhaps you should get off the bathroom floor. It isn't very sanitary."

Quickly, both boys scrambled up. "You wanted the answer to what we are doing?"

Harry nodded.

"We are trying to blow up a toilet—"

"—so we can remove the seat—"

"—and send it to our beloved sister at home."

Taking a moment to study the victimized toilet, the youngest of the three said, "Why don't you remove the toilet seat first, and then blow up the whole bathroom? More _pizzazz_ that way."

Fred and George's eyes widened.

"Why didn't we think of that?" said one.

"You are truly deserving of your title, Oh Great One!" said the other.

With a smile, Harry shook his head. "Have fun."

* * *

In Malfoy's grasp, Neville's Remembrall glittered brightly.

"Look! it's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

"Hey, that's Neville's! Give it here!" yelled Weasley in retaliation.

Basking in the growing attention of the other first years, Malfoy tossed the ball experimentally. "What if I don't want to?"

"Then...I'll tell Madam Hooch when she gets back!"

"Tattling, Weasley?" Malfoy meant to say something more, but felt a pair of eyes boring into him. He looked up to see an odd expression on Harry's face. "What?"

"Nothing." Cocking his head to the side, Harry continued to stare at him. "I was merely trying to figure out whether you were easily distracted by shiny objects, or whether you were a compulsive thief."

"What?" squawked Malfoy. If it were anybody else, he would have taken offense at the statement. However, the playful glint in Harry's eyes caused him discomfort (as usual). "I'm neither!"

The first years that had encircled them began to murmur. _What was Harry Potter up to?_ they wondered.

"Then why did you take Longbottom's Remembrall?" challenged the dark-haired Slytherin.

"Because..." The aristocrat faltered. "I, uh, just wanted to look at it!"

"So you're admitting that you _are _easily distracted by shiny objects?"

"No!"

"So you're admitting that you're a compulsive thief?"

"I said I wasn't either!"

"Really, Malfoy? I doubt that—" Harry stopped mid-sentence, pointing at a spot behind Malfoy. "Hey, _look! _What's that shiny object over there?"

The blond spun around. "What? Where? Huh?"

Seeing nothing, Malfoy turned back to the other boy and accused, "There isn't anything!"

From around them, the other first years began to chuckle at the pureblood's expense. Weasley was staring at Potter in confusion—could the Slytherin actually be helping Neville?

"Exactly," Harry said smugly. "You _are _easily distracted by shiny objects."

"But—but—" Under the mounting humiliation, Malfoy could only stutter.

"Take my advice and stop talking. You're only digging yourself into a bigger hole."

* * *

The troll was a creature of instinct. Never before had its senses and instincts sent conflicting messages to its brain. Never before until now. Unsure of how to respond, it wavered. Part of it wanted to crush the tiny human boy before him. Another part of it wanted to run screaming from the dark aura that emanated from the same tiny human boy.

Shrieking at the top of her lungs, the tiny human girl did nothing to help its problem.

Tiny human boy turned to tiny human girl.

"Shut up if you know what's good for you," he said calmly.

Hearing that cold, dangerous, shiver-inducing voice, the troll made its decision.

It ran.

* * *

Congregated in the staff room, the Hogwarts teachers watched in interest as the Deputy-Headmistress berated the Headmaster.

"When will you admit your mistake, Albus? It's not that difficult!"

"I don't know what you are talking about," denied the man.

"Harry Potter is a menace!"

"I haven't heard complaints from the student body."

Eyes flashing, the witch informed, "Today, in class, he turned his matchstick into a _knife_! How do you not consider that a menace?"

"Did he do anything with the knife?"

"He spun it around and continued to do so even when I asked him to stop. It was dangerous, Albus. He could have hurt someone!"

"But did he?"

"No." To everyone's surprise, it was Snape who answered. "He's constantly twirling his knife in my class too, but he never hurts anyone or himself."

"Don't you remember what he did to his relatives? We need to set limits on him."

Appearing rather exhausted, the Head of Slytherin said, "How do you propose we do that? If the media catches wind of this, they'll claim that we are unlawfully controlling a student."

"Are we speaking of the same media that claimed he was going to be the next Dark Lord when word of his sorting got out?

"The side they pick doesn't matter to them—they just want a story. And what will we do then? Inform the general public that he's been convicted of three counts of voluntary manslaughter? Imagine the reactions!"

So caught up in the argument, they did not notice the out of character reactions of a certain Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. Professor Quirrell neither fidgeted nor squirmed. In fact, he appeared quite at ease, as opposed to his normal nervous manner. Attempting to hide his fascination, he discreetly listened in on the Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin. It wasn't difficult, for all the other professors seemed captivated as well. Captivated and horrified.

Unlike his counterparts, however, Quirrell was not horrified. Quirrell was very, _very_ intrigued.

* * *

Surely, this was a nightmare.

In the past few months, Rubeus Hagrid had managed to convince himself that Harry Potter was harmless. Now, bound to his bed, all of his carefully constructed denial dispelled like dust blown away by wind. With bright, back-lit eyes, the Boy-Who-Lived examined him. Idly, he twirled one of the gamekeeper's butcher knives in his hand. Hagrid fought to suppress a shudder.

_Surely, _this was a nightmare.

"Rubeus Hagrid," the boy enunciated slowly, as if _tasting _the words. "Rubeus, Rubeus, Rubeus. Do you know why I am here tonight?"

Expertly gagged, the half-giant's response struggled out in a muffled mess.

"Let me tell you why I'm here. You want to know, don't you?"

No, Hagrid did _not _want to know. His pounding heart only circulated fright faster through his veins. Fearfully, he watched Harry pick his way through the hut, finally stopping before the window. For a moment, the boy peered out at the snow shrouded trees of the forest and the coldly winking stars of the sky.

"I'll just shut the curtains now. Wouldn't want anyone interrupting now, would we?"

Deftly, he pulled close the curtains, casting the hut into complete darkness. Disoriented, Hagrid blinked rapidly before a sudden, single flame flickered to life. It threw shadows against the walls, and eerily illuminated Harry.

Desperately, Hagrid hoped that his loyal dog was somewhere in the hut. Perhaps Fang would sense Harry's alien presence and make a racket. Perhaps, if he barked loud enough, people in the castle would notice?

As if sensing Hagrid's line of thought, Harry announced, "I think your dog's afraid of me. He kept whimpering and shrinking away when I got near."

Feeling dread course through him, Hagrid prayed that the Slytherin had not harmed his pet.

"Oh, _don't _worry about him. He's in a very peaceful place right now."

The man felt his chest clench painfully. No! Fang couldn't be... Hagrid could not even bear to finish the thought.

"But I defer. The reason I am here is because I dislike being left out of secrets. Oh, don't look so confused, Hagrid. You know what I'm talking about. The secret Dumbledore is keeping from the entire school." Now, Harry moved forward to pull the gamekeeper's gag away.

After a few moments, Hagrid manage to choke out, "I haven' a clue what yer talkin' 'bout."

"Strike one!" Before the man could even blink, Harry thrust his knife into Hagrid's gut.

"_Ah!" _An anguished scream tore from Hagrid's lips. His concentration narrowed until he found himself completely focused on the pulsing pain in his abdomen.

Coolly studying the crimson blood that stained his knife, Harry offered, "Now, I'm giving you a second chance. We can either do this the easy way or the hard way. Tell me: What is Dumbledore hiding on the third floor and why does Quirrell want it?"

Self preservation getting the better of him, Hagrid admitted, "The Philos'pher's Stone! But I don't get why yer asking 'bout Quirrell! He doesn' want it; he helped ter hide it too!"

"...Hide it too?" Interest played over the boy's handsome features. "Tell me, where is it hidden and how is it hidden?"

"I can't tell y—" Hagrid abruptly stopped talking as Harry raised the knife once more. "I, I meant that, er, well, there's this three headed dog on the third floor and it guards a trap door. I jus' know the Stone's somewhere under there. And, er, I know the other teachers all put these, erm, barriers of a sort, and yeh've gotta get passed 'em."

In his haste, his words tripped over themselves. Harry, however, did not seem to have trouble deciphering his explanation.

"How do I get past the dog? What are these '_barriers of a sort'_?"

"Erm, music makes Fluffly sleepy, yeh see. Any type'll do—even horrible singing. Uh, Sprout's obstacle is a sort of plant that yeh get tangled in, I think. Flitwick's has got to do with flyin' keys. McGonagall put in this big chess set, I know. And, er, teh get past Snape's, you've gotta choose the right potion or sommat like that."

"And Quirrell's?"

"Oh, Quirrell's got a real thing for trolls. He's amazing at controlling 'em, and he put one on guard..." Realization struck Hagrid, and he momentarily forgot that Harry was the enemy. "Sweet Merlin! During Halloween, his faintin' must've been a ruse! D'yeh think he did that on purpose to get to the Stone?"

Harry shrugged, a fiendish smile tugging at his lips. "You've been helpful, Hagrid. I think I'll allow you to live for now." His eyes then seemed to glow with an unholy light as he said, "Go to sleep now. _Sweet dreams_."

For Hagrid, everything faded to black.

And when he awoke the next day, all he could remember was a cloying fear. Phantom twinges troubled his stomach as he found himself racing to check on his slumbering pet. He must have had a nightmare, he decided, and was glad that he couldn't remember any of the details.

* * *

While Hermione studied the head of black hair bowed over a tome, curiosity seized her as it so often did when she was in the presence of the Boy-Who-Lived. (She still hadn't figured out why Harry's name was so familiar.) _Why did Harry Potter spend so much time in the library these days?_ she wondered. His consistently high grades were evidence that he need not work hard to be successful, much to Hermione's jealousy.

Feeling the emerald eyes upon her, she realized that she had been staring for quite a while now.

"May I help you?" asked the boy, a wry grin twisting half his lip.

"Uh." And she blurted her question, unable to stop herself, "Why are you in here so often?"

"Is it a crime to wish to learn? Or do you feel that the library is your sole dominion?"

Blood surged to the Muggleborn's cheek. "That...isn't what I meant!"

She shifted uncomfortably as he cast a piercing look at her.

"Well," he said finally. "If you must know, I'm here to find answers."

"To what?" she couldn't resist inquiring.

"_Everything._"

* * *

Quirrell was suspended in a haze—a very pleasant, very perfect haze. Life was good, the haze was good, and he never wanted to leave.

_You've been Imperiused, you fool! _

That angry hiss sounded familiar. Maybe he should figure out why? Or not. It didn't matter anyways. Nothing mattered in this utopian existence—nothing except obeying The Voice.

"Take off your turban."

Yes, he needed to take off his turban. Why did he even wear it in the first place?

_To hide me! Now, break the spell, or you shall suffer when I get a hold of you!_

The other voice was very annoying, and sounded very annoyed. Ignoring it, Quirrell proceeded with removing the purple cloth from around his head.

_No!_

"Answer all of my questions truthfully. Where did you meet Voldemort?"

"I met him in the forests of Albania while travelling the world." Oddly, his voice sounded detached, as if he were listening to a recording.

_Shut your mouth, Quirrell!_

"Why did you allow him to share your body?"

"He offered me power if I helped him to regain his former status. His form was not corporeal, thus he needed to share a body."

"Did the rebounding Killing Curse not kill him eleven years ago?"

"No, as far as I'm concerned, his soul has been split—" (_Stop talking this instant!_ a desperate command sounded in his mind.) "—and placed into objects to ensure his immortality."

"Interesting... What objects?"

"I know not."

"How did you plan to help him regain power?"

"Find the Philosopher's Stone."

"Do you know where it's being hidden?"

"Yes."

"Why have you not retrieved it yet?"

"Because of all the tasks guarding it, and because I have been waiting for Dumbledore to be called away from the school."

_Quirrell, you shall pay for this!_

"Why did Voldemort try to murder me as a baby?"

"He has not revealed his intentions to me."

"How does one defeat him?"

"I'm not sure he can be defeated until all of his soul splinters are destroyed."

A pause. Then, "How much power does he have over you right now?"

"None."

"Stand, Quirrell."

Compelled to obey The Voice, Quirrell did so.

"Put your turban back on."

Mechanically, he re-wrapped the turban around his head.

"Retrieve the Stone."

And, suddenly, the Stone was of the utmost importance for a completely different reason than before. Rapidly, he began to walk out of his chambers. Keeping to the shadows, he traversed the familiar path to the forbidden corridor on the third floor. Perhaps it took him some time. Perhaps not. He was oblivious to time anyway, just as he was oblivious to the first year that strode next to him all along the way.

Fluffy, that dratted pet of Hagrid's, was obstructing the trap door.

"Sing to it," commanded The Voice.

Automatically, the professor's mouth opened, and the lyrics of the first song that came to mind spilled forth. "Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are!"

Just a few bars in, Fluffy began to doze.

"Open the trap door now, and keep singing."

Grasping the wood of the door, Quirrell pulled it back. "...Up above the sky so high, like a diamond in the sky..."

"Jump in."

Without a care in the world, he let himself fall through. He landed in a soft specimen. Devil's Snare, Sprout had called it. How should he get rid of it? The answer leaped to his mind: Fire.

"_Incendio!"_

Curling away, the plant shriveled. Quickly, Quirrell threw himself away from the fire, cast a water spell on the burning mass and, satisfied with the results, continued through the passageway. It was dark and damp, but why did that matter? In his mind, he existed in a wonderful, dazzling world. No troubles could reach him there.

Soon, he came to a door. Flitwick's obstacle was next, he realized... Something about keys...

He found himself in a brightly lit chamber, with a door opposite him, an audaciously arched ceiling above him, and keys fluttering all about. With purpose, he crossed to the heavy, handle less door.

The Voice, which had not spoken for some time, cut through the fog again, "Summon the right key."

The command was effortlessly fulfilled with an "_Accio". _Moments later, he was no longer in a chamber but a field—a black and white checkered field.

"Destroy the chess pieces."

Much to Quirrell's dismay, he couldn't—and not for the lack of effort. McGonagall must have spelled the pieces to be impervious to spells of destruction, he realized with a growl. He could scream himself hoarse, and not achieve any results. Now what? He _needed_ to destroy the chess pieces, or the perfection would be lifted.

The owner of The Voice must have noticed his dilemma. "Stop."

Even in his haze, Quirrell could sense a darkness pulsing and building from beside him. It was incredible. Magnificent. Like nothing he had experienced before. Not even Voldemort could match this power.

_How dare you!_

The other presence was speaking again, fury saturating its words.

_A mere boy cannot compete with me!_

Vaguely, the Defense professor registered a fantastic, rattling explosion. Pieces shattered, some embedding themselves within Quirrell's skin. He did not care though. All he cared about was obeying his master.

_I am your master!_

He could feel his brows crinkling in confusion. The protests—obviously lies—were like flies that he could not swat away.

Once more, the desperate voice sounded, but its quality was different this time. "_Harry Potter! You shall pay for this when I get a hold of you!_"

With just a hint of a smirk on his lips, the aforementioned boy ignored the threat. "Come," he calmly asserted instead.

Again, the man complied, picking his way across the dusty, debris-strewn board. Absently, he passed through two doorways. After the first, the young, yet commanding voice instructed him to placate his troll, which he did with ease. After the second, he was ordered to pause. He registered the rustling of paper being picked up, and then The Voice.

"_Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,_

_Two of us will help you, whichever one you would find._.."

Realizing that the words were not directed toward him, Quirrell allowed himself to retreat back into the worry-free haven of his mind, not returning until he heard:

"If you poisoned yourself, what would happen to Voldemort?"

"It depends on how strong the poison is, and the amount."

"If the poisons were three fatal potions drank in rapid succession?"

"Because he inhabits my body, he will be significantly weakened. Perhaps even killed."

Quirrell felt smooth glass being pressed into his hands. Liquid sloshing sounds slipped into his ears.

"Drink them quickly."

_You weak-minded fool! They are poisons! Stop this instance!_

Even if the warning had not arrived too late, Quirrell would not have obeyed it. Removing the stoppers from the bottles, he thrust back his head and tolerated the bitter flavors that seeped down his throat. Immediately, weakness assailed his muscles. He did not permit the sensation to impede his fulfillment of The Voice's request, however.

Black spots dazzled as... he slowly sank...into peaceful...

...oblivion.

_(But his end was not entirely undisturbed, for anguished screams chased him into the dark.)_

* * *

Beyond the steps, at the center of the chamber, a mirror stood majestically. It was a curious contraption, with _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi _carved into its ornate frame. It did not take long for Harry to decipher the meaning:

_I show not your face but your heart's desire_

In the reflection, he was withdrawing a blood red stone from his pockets. As he watched, Harry felt a heavy object drop into said pockets.

_Curious_.

The boy glanced down, extracting the Philosopher's Stone from his pants. In the dim light, it winked a cold claret. To Harry, it did not appear more special than a peculiarly large gem... Once more, he looked back up at his reflection.

There was a gasp. Absently, he registered it as his own.

And then he was stumbling back, away from the new image in the mirror:

A whale like man, with his arms proudly wrapped around Harry and a pudgy boy. Beside them, a horse-faced woman beamed at them.

The three Dursleys, alive and well, were treating him with pride and acceptance.

* * *

When news about Quirrell's demise circulated, the students were incredibly shocked. No explanation came with the information of their professor's death, and they were left pondering the circumstances of Quirrell's passing. In February, they speculated and gossiped. In March, they acclimated to their new Defense teacher, a much more capable instructor by the name of Quest. In April, the death of Quirrell seemed like a long ago dream. In May, they forgot. Then the end of the year was upon them, and in the midst of exams and celebration, the topic was never mentioned again.

The only people who did not forget were the ones informed of how the man had died. Only the four Heads of Houses and Dumbledore were aware that Quirrell had been found in Snape's potion riddle chamber, with three bottles strewn near his limply opened hand. Quickly, Snape had determined that all three had formerly contained poisons.

Overwhelming evidence seemed to favor the explanation that Quirrell had intentions of stealing the Stone. However, his suicide was incongruous with his prior actions.

_Why commit suicide when he was so close to achieving his goal? Why use three poisons instead of one?_

It almost seemed as if he had been forced to kill himself.

_Was someone else with him that night? If so, who?_

But there were no answers to be found.

More troubling was the vanishing of the Philosopher's Stone, but Dumbledore did not admit the disappearance to anyone.

Because if anyone knew, they would suspect him of incompetency. And he wasn't incompetent.

Not at all.

* * *

The stifling heat of late June was suffocating, and Nicolas Flamel's discomfort was only heightened by the binding spell cast upon him. He could neither struggle nor squirm. Forced against a chair, he attempted to ignore the protest of his weary bones. His last supplies of the Elixir of Life had been used a week before, and old age was finally catching up to him.

Almost as if Flamel's captor sensed the alchemist's train of thoughts, he said, "Six-hundred-sixty-six years is a long time to be alive."

Flamel didn't reply. What could he say to this boy, who was six-hundred-fifty-five years younger than him? He hadn't even fully come to terms with his predicament yet, either. One moment, he had been scrambling eggs for breakfast. The next, he was tied by a magic that even he could not overcome. It was the magic of _willpower, _something that only untrained children could grasp. Never in all his years had Flamel met a person who could harness the skill in such a disciplined manner.

Never until now.

Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, seemed to be an exception to all the expectations. Last September, the alchemist and the rest of the wizarding world had been abuzz over the news of Harry's sorting. After that, they remained attuned to descriptions of his demeanor and tales of his exploits. He was nothing like what they had expected—darker and smarter; more powerful and imposing; a _Slytherin_.

And, presently, Flamel was receiving an up-close encounter with the young celebrity.

Too bad this wasn't the type of situation that he, or anyone else for that matter, would want to be in.

"Wouldn't you agree?"

The man blinked, thinking back to Harry's previous comment. "Yes, I suppose."

"You must has learned and experienced a lot in your years."

"...Yes." Flamel was uncertain, feeling distinctly that he had to be careful around the Slytherin, lest his words be turned against himself.

"Good. I have a lot of questions to ask."

"...What? What guarantees that I will answer your questions?"

With a vampiric smile, Harry pulled out an object from the sack he'd thrown across his shoulders. Flamel could not hold back a gasp at the sight. Glinting brightly, the Philosopher's Stone mocked him from its position in the boy's hand.

"I could do a lot of bad things with this, couldn't I? For example, giving it to Voldemort..."

"You wouldn't!"

Emerald eyes danced with an evil mischief; Harry did not reply.

Resigned, Flamel asked, "What do you want to know about?"

"_Everything—_life, death, love, hate, magic, and all that's in between." The conviction in the boy's voice sounded like a promise. "And don't worry about your dear Perenelle. I made _sure _she wouldn't bother us!"

Mouth suddenly dry, the man gulped heavily at the bright tone in Harry's voice. He would be answering the questions of a demon child, he realized—a demon child who seemed not to fear the consequences of his actions.

Flamel was already hoping for the end.

* * *

For the alchemist, after several hours of intensive interrogation_, the end _came in quite the literal form of death. That evening, Dumbledore discovered his oldest acquaintances had passed away in their home in Devon. He suspected nothing.

Somewhere else in the magical world, Harry Potter was celebrating freedom, summer, and newly acquired knowledge.

* * *

End of Year 1

Thanks to imadoodlenoodle, as always. Also, this chapter could not have been possible without the ideas contributed by some very brilliant reviewers. "Hat bursting into flames" idea belongs to raka. "Harry with a knife in Potions", "transfiguring his match into a knife in Transfig", and "scared troll" belongs to AKA Quin. "Draco bending over backwards to compliment Harry's artwork" belongs to DMHPsasunaru. "Hermione recognizing Harry" belongs to The Dark Lord Mudblood.


	3. Year 2

**2**

House hopping was what Harry called it. Show up at a mansion, a penthouse, a castle, and _Imperius _the stupid fools living within. It wasn't as if the hosts were suffering in the long run. They had money. They had possessions. They had power. Harry was merely borrowing from them for a time. Or stealing. Really, _borrowing _and _stealing_ were interchangeable in hisf mind.

His path of destruction started in Scotland, near Hogwarts, and moved progressively southwards. He couldn't ever remember having so much fun.

In his humble opinion, _destruction _and _fun _were rather interchangeable too.

Until he got bored with his victims, he enjoyed toying with their lives. He could force them to indulge his every whim—compel them to kiss his shoes, coerce them into humiliating themselves, convince them to commit suicide. Ascertaining and abusing their fears and weaknesses was especially entertaining. Sometimes, he would return their lucidity solely to watch the horror playing across their faces. With eyes that roared a million protests, they bore witness to the actions that he made them carry out. And they could do nothing to stop him or themselves.

Playing God was just too much fun. From now on, an appropriate response to the inane "_What would you like to be when you grow up?_" would be "_God_", Harry decided. He would say it so seriously that everyone would have a good laugh and think he was joking.

If only they knew what he had been up to.

After the summer, a venal politician's reputation would forever be tarnished, an unstable actress would never land another job, and a capitalist who owned myriad sweatshops would never be able to exploit third world workers again. And the best part? No one would ever connect the strange happenings with the Boy-Who-Lived.

Now, with only a couple weeks before the start of year 2, he found himself in a wealthy London neighborhood. Just southwest of Buckingham Palace, Belgravia had a wide array of embassies and lavish abodes. Under the moonlight, his chosen residence rose up majestically. White stucco was cast into a pale gray sheen, and a single window in the upper left corner was lit in counterpart to the shadows of the eve.

First impressions were important, and Harry knew that climbing through the window in the dead of the night would send the appropriate messages that he wished to send. No introduction could be more suitable.

Reaching that window did not prove to be a challenge at all. Taking advantage of the wide terraces and his wild magic, he climbed nimbly to the top, using the glow of the glass panes as guidance. When he reached the balcony closest to his destination, he took a perch on the railing. A quiet command was enough to override the extensive security system, and a subsequent word opened the window gently. Using the overhang, he swung onto the ledge and tumbled inside.

Heart pounding with a gratifying adrenaline, he righted himself smoothly and allowed his eyes to adjust to the lighting.

Instead of the expected rectangular shape, the pastel walls curved around the room in a circle. Various expensive furniture pieces were arranged tastefully about the room—gilded vases atop a dark wood dresser, Van Gogh-esque paintings opposite a baroque vanity, ornate rugs matching ornate curtains. At the center of the masterpiece was a bed, also circular in shape. Attached to the ceiling, diaphanous yellow drapes screened off the gold sheets and excessive pillows on top of it. Sitting next to the bed on folded legs was a girl whose size made her appear almost insignificant in comparison to the rest of the room.

She peered up at him with curious eyes, so intensely green that they rivaled his own.

So intensely lonely that they made his stomach twist with a foreign sensation.

"Who're you?" Expressed in the angle of her tilted head was naïveté, not fear.

Caught off guard, the boy answered honestly. "Harry."

"Oh." Her gaze turned downwards and to the side. "D'you wanna play with me?"

Following her line of vision, Harry found himself admiring a miniature Tudor revival. It was no ordinary dollhouse; the money used to commission it could probably have fed a small country. Painstaking and meticulous, the details carved into it were simply breathtaking to behold. From his position, Harry could see the vague outlines of dolls within the house.

"Sure." He shrugged, prowling forward to sit next to her. "But shouldn't you be in bed by now?"

Pert nose wrinkling, she complained, "You sound like Ms. May."

"Who's Ms. May?"

"My nanny." Disinterestedly, she turned away and began to fumble with the dolls.

Realizing that she was trying to remove them from the house, Harry bent over to help. "What about your parents?"

"Mummy's in Hong Kong and Daddy's in Los Angels."

"You mean Los Angeles?"

She shrugged. "Yeah. They're never home 'cos of their _jobs_." Melancholy displeasure permeated her tone. "So Ms. May takes care of me. 'Cept Ms. May doesn't like playing with me. Mummy and Daddy don't like to, either."

At those sad words, a volatile darkness began to course through Harry's veins. "I'll play with you."

Brown curls of hair bounced happily as the girl's face illuminated with a beam of joy. "Yay!"

"What's your name?"

"Holly Pendergast," she announced eagerly.

"Okay, Ms. Holly Pendergast. Will you introduce me to your dolls?"

"'Course I will!"

An excited explanation ensued. Harry learned that the blond haired female was named Kathy, the brown haired male was named Robbie, and together they had a baby named Rachel. Kathy and Robbie always played with Rachel, Holly stressed, and they took _veeeery _good care of their little girl. Holly thought that it was a _lotta _fun. Harry thought that it was Holly projecting her inner desires onto her toys.

Much later in the night, Harry voiced a thought that had been simmering in his mind. "Holly, how would you like it if your parents came home and did whatever you wanted?"

"You mean play with me and stuff?"

"Yes."

"I'd love it! But they're never home—I already told you that." She pouted at Harry, as if the boy's forgetfulness were reprehensible.

"Oh, I remember," he assured her. "Why don't you go to sleep now. I'll have a special surprise for you in the morning."

"Promise?" Sparkling green eyes implored him to tell the truth.

"Promise."

* * *

Ms. May was taught not to question. In the Pendergast household, the golden rule drilled into her head was not, "_Treat others the way you want to be treated_." It was, "_Do not object to the parents' work schedule. Do not ask when they will return from a business meeting. Do not question their actions."_

So, when both parents returned on the same morning in mid-July (a coincidence that had never occurred in all her years of service), she said nothing. When they stared through her with strange, vacant expressions, she said nothing. When they spent every waking moment with their six-year-old daughter, she said nothing. When they played ridiculous games at the request of Holly, she said nothing.

However, she could not keep herself from asking about the odd appearance of a certain dark-haired boy named Harry. The answer—"_He's our darling's new playmate._"—was enough to satisfy her. After all, he had the appearances of an angel and acted like one too.

Or so she thought.

During the afternoon, a week after the Pendergast parents' return, she witnessed an exchange that would shatter her perceptions forever.

Harry had been conspicuously absent from the games that Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast played with Holly, and the latter had ordered her to search for him. Having no idea where to look, the elderly lady wandered up and down the halls for quite some time before a high-pitched squeal reached her ears:

"_Dobby is bad house elf! Dobby is to be punishing himself!_"

Eyes widening involuntarily, she scurried to the source of the noise. The door to one of the Pendergast's many drawing rooms was cracked open a bit—just enough for her to peek inside.

Certainly, her eyes must have been deceiving her!

Bashing its head into the floor was a grotesque figure. Ms. May had never seen anything like it. It had tennis ball eyes, and wore what looked to be pillow casing. A wound on his head was rapidly swelling, and dark blood was dribbling onto the Pendergast's expensive Maori-style rug.

"That's right, Dobby. Punish yourself."

Shivering, Ms. May felt more fear than she had every experienced in all her fifty-five years of life. Never had she heard a voice so dark—savoring another's anguish.

Casually, Harry was leaning against a nearby sofa, his lips twisted into a parody of a smile. "Are you sure you're punishing yourself enough?"

"No, Dobby is bad, bad elf!" More thumps onto the ground; more self-harm.

"Why don't I help you?" From seemingly nowhere, the boy produced a knife.

The silver, serrated blade was blindingly bright. The hilt was simple and well fitted into Harry's grasp. He wielded it with a finesse that could only have come from an intimate knowledge of how to use the weapon.

"Yes! Yes!" wailed the creature that called itself an elf.

Fervent distress possessed its ugly features. Tears and blood and snot pooled onto the floor. Ms. May could _feel_ the intensity of the creature's disgust—the misery pulsed out from his vulnerable form and was so strong that it arrested Ms. May's emotions.

In a moment of extreme self-loathing, the elf plucked the knife from the boy's hands. Still bawling, it stabbed the blade into its own chest with a swift motion.

Everything came to a standstill.

Watery eyes bulged out in time with a gaping mouth. Like a snapshot, the elf froze, its face displaying so many unreadable expressions—surprise, pain...freedom at long last?

And then it keeled over.

Ms. May felt a gasp escape from deep within her protesting soul. Then, realizing that she had made a sound and drawn attention to herself, her hands flew up to her mouth in horror.

Harry's head whipped toward her. She could see his eyes, green and backlit by evil intentions. She began to shrink backwards.

Unhurried words slipped from his grinning lips. "Ms. _May._"

Trembling and terrified, she scampered out into the hallway. "G-get away from me! I'm going to tell Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast about this!"

A low chuckle.

"_Really_?" The offhanded tone of his voice suggested that he was merely commenting on the weather. "Do you think they would _believe_ you?"

Too enraptured by her own fear, she did not register his warning. Instead—having been reduced to an animal by the situation—all she sensed was a fast approaching predator.

She ran.

Flying down the thickly carpeted halls, her mind cleared slightly. At regular intervals, she darted looks over her shoulder. It seemed that the boy, if he even _was_ a boy (she doubted his humanity after the display she had observed), was not following. Her destination was soon in sight. The tearoom where the Pendergast parents were having a party with their daughter was located just one floor above the drawing room. Gasping, she barreled to the door.

"_Do you think they would _believe_ you?_"

Harry's words floated into her mind, and she found herself faltering. What would she say? She doubted that her rich employers would believe her if she told the truth. Calming down slightly, she pushed open the door.

The scene within caused her to stop completely.

As if they were no longer under a spell, the parents stared down at Holly with folded arms. All week, their eyes had been empty and they had walked the walk of the dead. Now, intelligence—along with irritation—had returned to their demeanors.

"I don't know _what_ got into us," Mrs. Pendergast was saying, very much exasperated.

"Me too. I can't believe I just abandoned my meeting in Los Angeles." Mr. Pendergast glanced up, catching sight of Ms. May in the doorway. "Book me the first flight to Los Angeles, will you?" he asked.

Holly's forlorn voice piped up, "You're leaving again?"

Something about those words—perhaps the clearly discernible disappointment, perhaps the heart wrenching sadness—triggered soft, guilty looks from her parents.

Mrs. Pendergast bent down to scoop her daughter up into an embrace. "Holly, we both love you very much. We'll be back in a week. Won't we, Robert?"

The man looked from his wife to his child. "Of course, Katherine."

"Promise?" Holy asked in a small voice.

"Promise," both parents confirmed readily.

Neither noticed the nanny who was gawking at them with undisguised shock. Ms. May's incredulity was spawned from the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast had _never_ given a set date of return. Never until today.

Head spinning, Ms. May bowed out of the room and went to fulfill Mr. Pendergast's order.

Later, she would discover that the anomaly named Harry Potter had disappeared, as if he had never been there at all. Even the bloodstains in the drawing room vanished. Holly would occasionally inquire about him but, when she reached a certain age, her queries fell mute. Ms. May was left to silently carry the burden of what she had seen in the drawing room to the grave.

* * *

Flourish and Blotts was packed with people. Witches, wizards, students. All craned their necks to get a good look at the celebrity signing books at the back of the room. None of them was aware that another celebrity was lurking in their midst, viewing the scene with a detached interest.

One would expect that not being recognized would result in being treated just like everyone else—shoved around and jostled—but, oddly enough, the customers unwittingly parted as they sensed Harry Potter moving through the masses. Nobody spared him a glance, but everybody shuffled away as he or she _felt_—rather than saw—the powerful young wizard. Unfortunately, having been trained to identify authoritative figures, a certain Daily Prophet photographer _did_ swivel to look at the soon to be second year.

Recognition was instant.

"Harry Potter!" he shouted out in a nasally voice.

Excited whispers rippled through the store. Gilderoy Lockhart's eyes bulged rather unattractively.

Leaping to his feet, he exclaimed, "It _can't_ be!"

Suddenly, he was diving forward, making to grab hold of the youth. Not expecting Harry to step nimbly to the side, he went crashing to the floor.

Silence.

Lockhart's racing heart pumped blood to his cheeks. He bowed his head, allowing his blond locks to hide his blush. Someone bent down, moving closer to aid him. An elegant hand enfolded his left wrist and helped to pull him up. Raising his face, he met a pair of astonishingly green eyes. Dark humor sparkled in them—bright like the Avada Kedavra.

As Harry Potter assisted him, the boy whispered into his ear, "Don't mess with me, Mr. Lockhart. I know the _truth_."

Cryptic as those words were, Lockhart's mind immediately discovered the meaning of them.

"_No_," he denied softly, shuddering with fear.

The response was merely a wink and a smile, charming enough to rival Lockhart's own. "Have a good day."

Harry turned and walked out of the shop.

* * *

Hogwarts Express had more than enough compartments to accommodate the students, thus it was difficult for Draco Malfoy to find the person he was searching for. As he walked down the train, people jostled him. As he examined each compartment, people stared back at him with annoyance.

But he wasn't about to give up.

Malfoys never gave up whilst seeking revenge. Especially now that he had blackmail material to use against Potter, and an item that his father claimed would bring back the Dark Lord. Just thinking about the fact that _he_, Draco Malfoy, would be the one to initiate Voldemort's return made him giddy with disbelief. Never again would Potter be able to intimidate him, make him look like a fool _or _steal his signature smirk.

Draco was going to confront the half-blood about Quirrell. Draco was going to warn him:

"_You better not make me angry because, if you make _me _angry, you'll make the Dark Lord angry. And, not only that, I'll make sure that _everyone _hears about what you did last year._"

And that was the truth. His father had educated him over the summer: Having control over the diary meant having control over Voldemort, and knowing that Potter had been responsible for the death of Quirrell meant gaining power over the Boy-Who-Lived, too.

The image of Harry Potter cowering at his feet bestowed him with an unparalleled smugness.

However, the _real _image of Harry Potter smiling up at him from an empty compartment gave him pause. Abruptly, his prepared words fled from his mind, chased away by a roiling sense of dread.

With a wave of Harry's hand, the glass panel opened. Draco tried to ignore the blatant display of wandless magic.

"Hello there, Draco." Setting aside the book he had been reading, the dark-haired Slytherin patted the vacant seat next to him. "How was your holiday?"

Taking the hint, Draco went to sit down beside Harry, too afraid of the consequences if he did not obey the other boy. Then, he realized that he was slipping back into his old mindset.

There was no reason to fear Harry Potter, he reminded himself.

"Quite good." He cleared his throat, trying very hard to make himself look menacing. "I learned quite a lot about...certain things."

"Indeed? I'm quite fond of learning myself. Tell me, Draco, where are Crabbe and Goyle?"

Draco blinked. The non-sequitur had stomped all over his opening.

"They aren't here. I wanted to talk to you alone?"

"And why is that?" Amusement diffused over Harry's face, looking almost as if he were indulging the pureblood in his little game.

"I-I know what you did to Quirrell!" Much to Draco's chagrin, the accusation came out weakly.

A laugh. "Do you, now?"

"Yes!"

"And what did I do?"

"You killed him!"

More laughter, sharp and cold like an iceberg or, perhaps, a falling star. "So, presumably, you will tell the whole school that I killed our late professor if I don't...?"

Unsure of his own demands, Draco stuttered for a moment. Perhaps his idea had not been as well planned as he'd first thought. "If-if...if you don't accept me as superior to you!"

"_Draco," _Harry purred, "what do I have to fear from some rumors? Rumors without evidence, I might add. Remember what people said when I was first sorted into Slytherin? If I survived those accusations, I can survive any."

"But...I am superior! I have the power of the Dark Lord behind me." Draco froze, realizing too late what he had said.

Harry's eyes narrowed minutely. "Would you like to explain your statement?"

"Uhm."

Careful scrutiny was aimed in the blond's direction. Then, Harry seemed to come to a decision.

Waving his hands dismissively, Harry said, "Get out of here, Draco. Go tell the world about your baseless claim."

Draco obeyed.

Outside, his heart slowed. Panicked thoughts no longer assaulted his brain, and taking their spot was a vehement anger. Once again, Potter had managed to outsmart him. Draco's defeat stung sharply.

_"Go tell the world about your baseless claim_."

Involuntarily, the boy released a growl, ignoring the odd looks that were sent his way. He was going to tell the world, all right. And Potter was going to _suffer._

* * *

What Hermione Granger needed was a _plan_. After all, she couldn't go about accusing Harry Potter—Murderer, Mental Patient, and Boy-Who-Lived—without carefully examining all of the possible outcomes and reactions first. She didn't even know what to say to him.

_"I know that you killed your relatives."_

She shuddered even to think about what reactions _that _would garner.

Absentmindedly, she sighed and dragged a hand through her mane of bushy hair. Outside, the scenery had morphed from rolling hills to deep forest. Night had descended, and she remembered how the soothing rhythm of the train had lulled her to sleep last year. No such possibility existed this time around—not when she was plagued by the knowledge that she was in such close proximity to a murderer...

Harry Potter's unpredictability presented quite a lot of problems for her. If she confronted him about his actions, she could just imagine that sparkling laughter spilling from his lips—pleasant like wine, deadly like poison. But she could also imagine him stealing into her dorm at night, wielding the knife that he was so fond of.

_"You've upset me, Ms. Hermione_," he would say in that pleasant, unassuming way of his. A charming smile and a stab of the knife later, he'd whisper into her ear as she succumbed to death's grasp, "_I punish those who upset me._"

Trembling involuntarily, she wondered _why _Headmaster Dumbledore had even allowed Harry to attend Hogwarts. Surely, he knew the truth. Surely, someone else in the school knew the truth, too!

"Have you figured it out yet?"

Much to her own embarrassment, Hermione squeaked and jolted out of her seat. Blushing and averting her eyes, she scrambled back onto the cushions. From the entrance of the compartment, Harry Potter was smiling enigmatically at her. With his arms folded loosely, he leaned against the door in a fashion that suggested the door served no other purpose except to be leaned on by him.

"Have you figured it out yet?" he repeated his question, and then slid smoothly into the empty spot across from the Gryffindor.

In response, Hermione shrank backwards. "Um." (How she hated that meaningless noise of uncertainty!) "What do you mean?"

Soft laughter graced her ears, and she had to admit that Harry was as captivating as he was scary.

"Last year, you were trying to figure out why my name sounded so familiar."

Hermione gulped. "Oh."

"So?" he prompted.

_This is the perfect time for you to ask him!_

_Don't be silly, you're all alone! He could do anything to you._

_He could do anything to you anytime he wanted._

Once again, Harry spoke, drawing her away from the warring voices in her head.

"You know, don't you?" His tone was soft; his eyes glowed strangely in the dim lighting.

"How did you—"

"Figure it out? You're quite similar to the books you're so fond of, Ms. Hermione. Transparent. Easy to read."

She could feel herself blushing, much as a bird could feel the coming rain. "Wh-what are you going to do to me?"

"Why would I do anything to you?" Cocking his head to the side, he expressed a polite confusion.

"You-you aren't going to kill me?"

"Kill you?" He leaned forward, a strand of dark hair drifting into his eyes as he gazed steadily at her. "Will that be necessary?"

Hypnotized by his snake-like gaze, she exhaled shakily. "No," she whispered.

With unsuppressed terror, she unblinkingly followed the progress of his graceful hand. Slender fingers reached forward to tenderly tuck a brown lock of hair behind her ears.

"_Good._ I'd hate to destroy a brilliant mind like yours."

* * *

For as long as he could remember, Theodore Nott categorized people as colors. The habit didn't disappear after he arrived at Hogwarts, and he automatically assigned hues to his dorm mates.

Draco Malfoy's desire for attention colored him red. His plea was not subtle, but people ignored it nonetheless. After all, if they wanted to help him, they would have to address the problems that spawned his need. And, in order to do that, they would have to take a good, hard look at Draco's home life.

They preferred to turn the other way.

Both Crabbe and Goyle's blind faith in their leader could be described as off-white. Because smaller students feared the pair's presence and older students automatically dismissed them as petty bullies, no one realized just how innocent they actually were.

Blaise Zabini was a true Slytherin green. Although he was quiet, he knew how to navigate through social circles with ease. He regarded most people with disdain, but rarely displayed contempt openly. He wasn't confrontational.

In contrast to the rest of the first year Slytherins, Harry Potter presented quite a challenge for Theo. After much careful thought, however, the pureblood decided to label Harry as a solid, ambiguous gray. Attempting to fathom the Boy-Who-Lived was just too difficult, and Theo wasn't prepared to try.

Apparently, the rest of the school agreed with him.

Not even a week had passed since the start of Hogwarts, and a new tale about Harry Potter had already spread through the entire population, fast as a plague carried by rats. Someone said someone else said someone else's sister said that Harry was responsible for Professor Quirrell's death. Someone else said someone else's brother said someone else's friend claimed that Professor Quirrell had secretly been trying to resurrect You-Know-Who.

Nobody knew what to believe.

Everybody gave Harry Potter a wide berth.

Harry Potter acted as if nothing was wrong.

* * *

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue._

_Your writing is useless,_

_And so are you_.

"Harry Potter!" gasped an outraged professor. "What is the meaning of this?"

Smirking, the boy bent down to study his own cramped writing. It was quite minimal, actually, written at the top of the test paper alongside his name. The rest of the exam—from question one about Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color to question fifty-four about Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday—was left blank.

"Why, Professor Lockhart, it's a poem. Shall I read it to you?" Without giving the man a chance to answer, Harry launched into a facile recitation, "Roses are red, violets are blue. Your writing is useless, and so are you."

Behind him, the class snickered in unison. It was one of the rare occasions when both Slytherin and Gryffindor agreed on something.

"M-my writing is _not _useless!" stuttered the blond.

"Oh,_ really?_" Harry did not sound convinced. "If all of these creatures you've written about—banshees, ghouls, hags, trolls, vampires, yetis—appeared in the classroom right now, would you be able to take them on?"

"Of course!"

"Are you sure?"

A glint in Harry's eyes caused Gilderoy to falter. His instincts were warning him to tread carefully, but his ego was outraged: How dare the boy speak to him like this?

"Yes!" he insisted once more.

With bated breath, the class avidly awaited Harry's response. Some leaned forward in their desks; others could not suppress their amused giggles. However, the next voice to reach their ears belonged to a girl.

"Look!" shrieked Hermione Granger, pointing a quivering hand at the window.

Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changed, as sudden as a sky before rain. Something in the Gryffindor's voice incited an instant worry within them. Turning as one, the class followed her gaze.

Outside, gaunt faces had materialized, rattling the glass panes and eclipsing the sunlight. They're appearances were horrific—loose, green flesh framing deep eye sockets and upturned noses. With silent howls, they demanded entrance.

"_Banshees_," Seamus Finnigan whispered faintly, his face a pale, sickly color.

"Don't worry," Lockhart assured the children. "I'm sure that the mere sight of me would dissuade them from entering!"

"Because you're so ugly, they'd fear losing their eyesight?" For some odd reason, Harry's soft insult carried throughout the classroom.

Pretending not to hear, Lockhart said loudly, "And the wards around the school will not allow them entrance!"

As if waiting for the words just to contradict them, the creatures burst through the window in a duet of shattering glass and screeching voices. Their cries were echoed in the terrified students, but the banshees seemed to ignore the children completely. Like flakes of snow in a blizzard, they glided over occupied desks, knocking over books, quills, and parchment. Together, they delved toward the front of the room—

Straight at Gilderoy Lockhart.

Skeletal fingers reached for him, and he scrambled backwards as fast as his legs would take him. His heart was pounding so hard that he thought the organ might explode. Then, his back hit the wall, sending his winking portraits askew. And there was nowhere else to run.

A pair of hands grabbed him round the neck, and he suddenly found himself unable to breathe. If he weren't being throttled, the feel of rotting skin against his own would have induced gag reflexes. But, now, he was helpless to do anything. Some time ago, his wand had fallen from his limp hands.

Lockhart's lips parted in a silent scream.

As if in answer, a real scream could be heard from the banshees, but it wasn't voices so much as the pure sound of _murder_. When it reached a certain octave, twenty-five pairs of ears began to gush crimson fluid. Fingers of blood crept down necks and under shirts, asphyxiating the skin beneath with their hot, sticky presence. All the while, the noise built and built and builtandbuilt_andbuiltandbuiltand_—

_Somehow, _Harry Potter managed to issue a command above the chaos. "_Seperatus Bradamus!_"

Necks severed in a chorus of horrid cracks. Four banshee heads—had there only been four of them?—tumbled to the hard wood floor, like the splattering blood droplets from a person who had just been stabbed repeatedly. Along with them, Gilderoy Lockhart collapsed—a convulsing, whimpering, pitiful heap of flesh.

The silence was golden.

* * *

_"How?_" McGonagall demanded of Headmaster Dumbledore. "How could such a thing have happened? Who could have taken down the wards?"

A pause.

Crinkling could be heard as Dumbledore fiddled with a lemon drop, the wrapper winking brightly in the light. "Would you care for a sweet, my dear?"

"Answer the questions!" She did not raise her voice, but her tone had taken on a dangerous quality. Disheveled strands of salt and pepper hair fell around her enraged face.

"If you insist," Dumbledore sighed. "I am unsure how such a thing could have happened. It could only have been instigated by someone with a vendetta against the school and an immense power—enough power to rival my own. Right now, I suspect Voldemort." He ignored McGonagall's shudder, voicing the name grimly.

"What if they did not have a vendetta against the school, but a vendetta against someone _within _the school?" suggested the woman.

"Are you suggesting that someone wishes to harm dear Harry? I can see why you would think that. After all, it was _his _class that was attacked."

"No, Albus." McGonagall shook her head, lips set into a hard line. "I think _Harry _wishes to harm someone in that class. Specifically, Lockhart."

"But Gilderoy never voiced any concerns!"

If the Head of Gryffindor had to look at that apathetic expression any longer, she just might strangle the man in front of her. Wisely, she chose to avert her eyes, allowing them to land on the shelf of silver instruments behind Dumbledore. There was a wide assortment of contraptions there—from a globe that spun constantly to a band set with glittering jewels—and she had always wondered about their purposes.

"Why did you even hire Lockhart in the first place? That man can't teach to save his life! All he ever does is brag...! But I digress." Calming down slightly, she smoothed back her hair. She had learned not to expect any real answers from her colleague. "Students in the class that was attacked claimed that Harry had threatened Lockhart."

"Threatened? How so?" Dumbledore sent her a skeptical look over the tops of his half-moon glasses.

"First, Harry asked Lockhart if, in the event that banshees or other creatures appeared in their classroom, he could defeat them. Lockhart said yes, of course. And the next thing anyone knew, a horde of banshees had appeared in their room!"

"A mere coincidence." Flapping his hands dismissively, the man reached for another sweet. "Harry does not have the ability to take down the wards of Hogwarts!"

McGonagall's eyes narrowed, her eyebrows drawing downwards like storm clouds over an unsuspecting town. "If you honestly believe that," she hissed slowly, quietly, "then you are severely underestimating Mr. Potter's ability."

For a moment, Dumbledore studied her soberly. McGonagall almost thought that he would seriously consider her words.

But then, he firmly asserted, "Nonsense."

And she found herself throwing her arms in the air and stalking out of his office.

* * *

Nightmares were foreign to Gilderoy. He had _dreams _and he had _ambitions—_vivid and high flying, like birds of the tropics. But he'd never had nightmares.

Until he met Harry Potter.

The boy was both the embodiment _and _cause of Gilderoy's terror. Like a psychopathic killer who had already honed duality, Harry played the two roles with a suave expertise. In classes, he stared up at Gilderoy with eyes overly bright and attentive, slicing into him like the serrated blade of a knife.

_I'm watching you,_ they seemed to say. _Don't slip up, or I'll catch you_.

So unsettling was his gaze that Gilderoy could not find it within himself to bask in the worship of the rest of the class. Whenever he turned his back to write upon the board, he was unpleasantly aware of the Avada Kedavra eyes assailing him. For the first time in his life, Gilderoy thought he had a taste of what an impending demise must have felt like.

It was horrid. Made his perfect hair stand on end, his manicured hands shake unappealingly, his breath come short as memories of the Banshee attack assaulted him.

And the memories were ruining his attempt at denial.

He never mentioned the attack aloud. Speaking of the occurrence was taboo, at least in his class. He was painfully aware that, even with his glowing celebrity status, he could not control the actions of the rest of the school. Sometimes, he would catch students shooting him sneers, snickering to one another and no doubt sharing snide comments.

_(...liar, liar...)_

He was afraid of what they were saying but, at the same time, desperately wanted to know how he stood in their eyes.

_(...pants on fire...)_

His life was spiraling downwards. He felt as if his fingers were the only things clinging to the sheer face of a cliff, keeping him from falling to his death. During meal times, he forced his lips to smile and forced his mouth to form pleasant small talk with the fellow professors. During classes, he lectured from his bestselling books, keeping count of how many lessons he had to teach before the second year Slytherins. Then, when he survived Harry's class, he would breathe a sigh of relief and restart the countdown. The cycle was vicious—as taxing as a nightmare.

But, compared to the dreams he had, it was nothing.

_(...liarliar...)_

In his sleep, the past came back to haunt him. Always, a group of monsters—savage hags, buck-toothed ghouls, angry yetis—would approach, slinking slowly toward him as if to prolong the torture. They would corner him, much in the same way as the banshees had, and then proceed to assail him. With gnashing teeth and tangible ire, they tore at his body, severing flesh from his face, fingers from his hands, toes from his feet. When they were satisfied, they tossed him into a pit full of damp dirt and writhing earthworms and hungry maggots, and doused him with rancid-smelling oil.

_(...pantsonfire...)_

And then another face—the face of a person he had _Obliviated—_would appear above him, a shadow against the dark sun. Gilderoy would plead until his voice was hoarse, but the person never deviated from his or her task. A fire would be lit, then sent tumbling into his pit.

_(...liarliarpantsonfire...)_

And Gilderoy would always wake to the scent of burning flesh.

* * *

When he showed up at Quidditch tryouts, Draco Malfoy was confused, angered, and disappointed to find out that the Seeker's position had already been filled. Furthermore, Marcus Flint had refused to tell him who the new Seeker was, smirking and saying something about a secret weapon.

Seething, Draco stomped back to his dorms and immediately retrieved the diary.

He had never suspected the Dark Lord to be kind and sympathetic but, more and more, Draco found himself depending on the diary for comfort. Tom M. Riddle _cared _about him, _understood _him, knew just what to say to _console _him. Draco basked in the attention and, at the same time, basked in the knowledge that he was the _only _one who would ever be treated like this by the Dark Lord.

He poured his soul into the diary and, in return, the diary poured the feeling of being special back into him.

* * *

From the moment that he'd witnessed Harry Potter controlling Peeves, the Bloody Baron knew he'd found a kindred spirit in the boy. Slytherin House's ghost had only ever met one other student who possessed the same dark power as Harry. That other student—Tom Riddle—had attended Hogwarts over fifty years ago.

Harry asked a lot of questions about Tom.

But that was nothing outside of the norm. Harry asked a lot of questions in general, ranging from _"What was life like when you were alive?"_ to _"What is it like being a ghost?"_

The Bloody Baron was happy to oblige the inquiries.

When he received the invitation to Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party, he knew that Harry would be the perfect companion. Nick would be ecstatic—beside himself with happiness because a _celebrity _had deigned to attend his party. Harry would jump at the chance to meet more ghosts and study the interactions between them. The Baron would be satisfied with the conversation that Harry provided, since most beings—both alive and dead—tended to avoid him. It was a win on all three fronts.

As expected, Harry questioned him about _this _and _that _as they made their way down the drafty, stone corridors. Several floors above them, eager students trekked into a Dining Hall ornamented by orange and black, pumpkins and bats. Below, however, swathes of pearly-white spirits ghosted smoothly into a spacious dungeon. Burning with eerily blue flames, black candles cast flickering light onto the room and its occupants—winking off the handsome, silver plates laden with rotting food and throwing shadows over the dark floor.

"It's cold," Harry noted, before quickly warming himself up with a spell. His calm elegance testified to his ability to adapt. If he were ill at ease in the presence of so many dead, he certainly gave no indications. "The decorations are rather...out of character for Nick, don't you think?"

The Baron snorted. "Trying to impress Sir Patrick Podmore, most likely."

"Why?"

"Organizes the yearly headless hunt, Sir Podmore does. Refuses to allow Nick to participate, though. Always saying that Nick is only nearly headless."

"That must be quite a blow to the ego." On the dance floor, the swirling motion of the phantoms was mirrored by the dancing interest in Harry's bright eyes.

His interest was diverted by a particularly mournful soul, floundering forlornly at the edge of the crowd. Contrasted against happy laugher and animated chatter, her dampened mood leapt out in sharp relief.

"Any particular reason why she's so sad?" a mild curiosity spurred him to ask.

Shrugging, the Baron replied, "She's always sad. She's Moaning Myrtle."

"Moaning Myrtle?" He arched an eyebrow at the name.

"Yes. Haunts a toilet most of the time."

The eyebrow rose higher, but there was no irreverent smile tugging at his lips. "A_ toilet?_"

"Indeed. Died in one. Haunts one now."

Seeming to come to a decision, Harry strolled up to her. When she realized that she had been approached, her dark watery eyes onto him.

"What do _you _want?" Her voice was grating, but not as grating as the horrid, orchestral cacophony in the background.

"Good evening to you as well, Ms. Myrtle."

Translucent crinkles manifested on her forehead, a display of confusion. From Harry's suave manner, it was impossible to discern whether or not he was mocking her.

"It's nice to see you outside of your haunt," the boy continued, voice smooth as a budding leaf in spring.

"Well, I certainly can't stay in the second floor girl's bathroom all of the time." Still feeling uncertain, she resorted to an admonishing tone.

He agreed easily, "Of course." A pause. Then, with a façade of genuine empathy, he inquired, "But may I ask _why _you spend so much time in the bathroom?"

She shrugged, determined indifference ruined by the slight wobbling of her lips. "Everyone hates me, so I might as well stay out of their way."

"Now, now. That can't be true. You were invited here, weren't you?"

Another shrug. "I suppose..."

"You still aren't convinced, are you? Tell me, Ms. Myrtle, why do believe others think so poorly of you?"

"They always have."

"Oh? Since when?"

"Since my Hogwarts years." Though a familiar distress roiled in her chest, she felt compelled to answer by those green, _green _eyes.

Gentle, but imploring, he prompted her to continue, "Those must have been a long time ago."

"Fifty years." She shuddered. "But I can still remember my Hogwarts years like they were yesterday. There was a girl who would always, always tease me... Oh, she made me so miserable!"

"She sounds like a dreadful person. Surely, she wasn't the one who..." Appropriately, he hesitated. "Who brought about your death?"

Myrtle was responding faster now, eager to share her tale, "Olive Hornby was a dreadful person, but she never killed me." Halting dramatically, she lowered her voice so that Harry was forced to lean in. "No, all I remembered before my death was a pair of big, yellow eyes."

_Killed by eyes?_

Harry's mind was working rapidly. "That's—"

A hunting horn sounded, drowning out his words. Silence descended upon the dungeon, followed immediately by the descent of a dozen, ghostly horses. Each magnificent steed was ridden by a headless specter. Some were dressed in archaic knight's armor while others were dressed in embroidered riding clothes.

"It's the headless hunt." The Bloody Baron had floated up behind Harry, disdain clear in his eyes. "Might as well leave now, before this party turns into a shouting match."

Harry offered an apologetic look at the girl ghost. "I have to go now, Ms. Myrtle. It was a pleasure talking to you."

She reciprocated, but her words were nearly indiscernible as Podmore and Nick began to vie for attention. Harry and the Baron backed out of the room.

When they had reached the hall, the Baron slowed down. "Myrtle seemed rather taken by you."

The boy at his side nodded, momentarily distracted.

"Harry?" the ghost prompted.

"Hmm?" Harry's expression was thoughtful. "Sorry. I thought I'd just heard something. What were you saying about Ms. Myrtle?"

Though the Baron shot Harry an inquisitive look at the odd title, he said nothing. "Just that she didn't start ranting at you."

"Is that normally what she does?" With more purpose now, Harry led the path up the stairs, across the Entrance Hall, then up another flight of stairs.

All the while, the Baron seemed not to have noticed Harry's faster steps. Instead, the Slytherin ghost started explaining about Myrtle's general attitude toward the world—the way she thought everyone was against her, the way she sobbed quietly to herself in her toilet, the way she almost appeared to take pleasure in self-pity.

Finally, the Baron registered his surroundings and said, "Actually, this here's the floor that Myrtle's bathroom is—" He stopped abruptly, eyes landing on a point beyond Harry's head. "Merlin. What is _that?"_

_That _referred to an ominous warning daubed onto a wall between two windows. It was painted by a dripping, red liquid that looked suspiciously like—

"_Blood," _Harry whispered.

As he scanned the words, his eyes glittered with an emotion that the Baron could not put a name to (or, rather, did not _want _to put a name to).

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Beneath the message, Mrs. Norris was strung by her tail onto a torch bracket.

"How creative." Harry's comment was no more than a whisper, sibilant like the hiss of a snake.

And, suddenly, the two Slytherins were not alone. Bustling and chattering from down the corridor informed them of the approaching masses.

The Baron pursed his lips. "Come."

He beckoned the boy down the hall and around a corner. There, in the shadows, they could safely watch the proceedings.

"My cat!" Argus Filch was shrieking, voice choked thickly. "My cat! What's happened to my poor dear?"

The corners of Harry's lips turned up in a small sneer, but he continued to observe the scene silently. Soon after, Dumbledore arrived, with both his bright, blue robes and his anxious, unnerved staff trailing behind him. The teachers ushered the shocked students out of the corridor, and then—believing that there were no more eavesdroppers—began to argue about topics that piqued Harry's interest.

Petrifications.

The Chamber of Secrets.

The Heir.

From the Baron's furrowed eyebrows, Harry could tell that the ghost also had a reaction to the occurrence and the discussion. However, the second year suspected that the Bloody Baron possessed some interesting background knowledge as well.

Carefully schooling his expression into the right amount of curiosity, Harry turned to his companion. "Baron, what do _you _know about the Chamber of Secrets?..."

* * *

Year 2 To Be Continued

Blessings be given to imadoodlenoodle for betaing.

The following have all contributed to the ideas in this chapter: Memory King ("Don't show Dobby any mercy at all."), Meteoricshipyards (Banshees+Lockhart), The Dark Lord Mudblood (Harry+Lockhart=Slaughter), leona-the-critic (Harry=abnormally cruel), henriette (Hermione figures Harry out over summer). Thanks so much!


End file.
